


i can barely breathe (when you’re here loving me)

by glockenspielium



Series: fitzsimmons week [7]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Best Friends, F/M, Gen, Post-Finale, Season 2 spoilers, biochem/engineering, but also painfully adorable, fitz is just fine, fitz needs help, literally no one is okay, nerdy nerds are nerdy, prose, the whole team is sad but jemma is saddest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-18 16:30:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4712744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glockenspielium/pseuds/glockenspielium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>day seven: </p><p>It's been some time since they were pulled from the water.</p><p>(or, ten times Jemma wonders if Fitz could be okay, and the one time she knows he will be.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	i can barely breathe (when you’re here loving me)

 

 _11 seconds_  

 

All too quickly, her lungs catch on the hard metal floor of the helicopter, legs falling behind a moment later. A shuddering gasp sends air burning down her trachea and her mind is swimming, one hand scraping desperately along the uneven flooring, trying to secure a hold (don’t let go), the other wound tightly into the front of his shirt. Even as the face in front of her spins and the pounding behind her eyes grows too heavy to bear, she can't let him slip, (mustn't let go), and she keeps holding on and holding on and holding on-

  

 

_7 hours_

 

She's itching to escape the protective confines of this chamber, but Jemma knows better than to ask again. The monitoring screen has been tilted to face her so she can see the timer, and there’s only an hour longer to wait. 

Well, fifty-eight minutes and three seconds (technically).

She can see the dull grey ceiling, two rows of soft blue lights, strange shapes cast from the sunlight slipping into wherever she is. But what she can’t see is anything useful. She can’t see anything helpful.

She can’t see his face. 

Fifty-seven minutes and twenty-two seconds.

(Jemma likes to be precise.)

 

 

_13 hours_

 

"Please tell me he's okay."

Okay? She bites her tongue- now is not the moment for semantics. 

"He's alive."

This is what she can give them. Even if she is no medical doctor, she's been the one measuring his pulse, his blood pressure, his spontaneous brain activity, even his bloody urine output- so she can say with some confidence that he's alive.

Skye gives her a small nod, somewhere between relief and reassurance, but one glance from May over her shoulder and Jemma knows that at least one member of the team understands what she can't find the words to say.

 

 

_5 days_

 

 

They delayed the debrief as a courtesy. 

Since she moved a cot beside his bed, it’s difficult to be anywhere else for long. Coulson takes one look at her and picks up his papers, leading her back to the door.

It’s difficult to talk over the various sounds emitted by the masses of equipment, half of which was designed in part by the man lying beneath the sensors. She can appreciate how it can be distancing and unnatural to some, but the noises tell a story in their symphony. 

It’s difficult to talk because she doesn’t know what to say.

 

 

_8 days_

 

It’s not like the movies – he doesn’t suddenly grab her hand and wake up with bright eyes and a steady smile. It’s not a surprise (or a miracle). 

His vital signs improve significantly and, although she loathes speculation, Jemma can reassure the others that it’s only a matter of time.

It’s slow and careful, monitored, measured; she wouldn’t have it any other way, not with him. There’s a horrible second of doubt, between breaths, waiting, but then-

His eyes open in a flutter of confusion, his lips are dry and thin, his voice is too hoarse to manage her name.

 

 

_32 days_

Even when they didn’t have their friendship, their trust, their intimacy – they had their words.

Ardently tossed across the laboratory- (there was a tendency to pair them off; the youngest and the most ferocious), their combative words, to and fro, were soon enough realised to be ground-breaking exchanges, fuelled by two precocious, competitive teenagers.

Even when things were difficult, lives on the line (hers), time running out (his), their words might be their only true power, their specialty.

So she starts cataloguing the process, the rate of recovery, rediscoveries every day. Fitz may be exceptional but his situation is not.

_3 months_

 

They go home for the holidays. 

Home this year is his mum’s place, just outside Glasgow. She makes egg nog and plays loud songs and swaps presents, but goes to bed at 10 on new years’ eve because it’s just too hard. 

It’s beyond freezing, even curled up underneath the same heavy blanket. They’ve done this enough times that she can point out the stars to him, instead, carefully seeking approval in his absentminded nods. Astrological names were always excessively complicated. 

The town below explodes into raucous cheers (when the time comes) and he tucks his head beneath her chin.

 

 

_4 months and 11 days_

 

No one else is awake and he’s already down in the lab.

The instrument falls to the ground with an awkward clatter. She doesn’t smother the moment with soft words and busy noises, not anymore. He hates it when she does that.  

His words are still clambering back, but sometimes they’re not enough.

When she puts a hand onto his shoulder (gently, _gently_ ) his eyes widen, but he stands his ground. For a moment he looks certain enough and so she leans in to press their lips together, the way he would have wanted it-

 _That_ is when he runs.

 

 

_4 months and 12 days_

She’s lying, still awake, but he’s already down in the lab.

(He fumbles, words and hands both stumped. She’s not naïve or defensive enough to deny intellectual elitism, but that’s not the only reason for her to find this change so particularly cruel.)

Somewhere between the stairwell and the door, she realises that Sky’s mentioned his hands, Coulson’s admired his typed reports, May commented once on her new gun; but no one has said a thing about his memory.

When he smiles up at her, it becomes painfully obvious that it’s not that he’s decided, either way.

He’s already forgotten.

 

 

_6 months_

But, some days are better than others. 

She’ll catch him on the comms screen, repairing an old design, the work of specialist teams redundant in seconds. He jumps from conclusion to next issue fluently, the way they used to, together.

And so she’ll run down to the workroom, ideas bubbling on her lips, hands ready to collaborate-

It only takes him moments to fall back apart again.

It’s easier to go on an undercover mission than quit the team. When Coulson comes to her, he doesn’t seem surprised by her immediate response.

It’s easier to say “I’ll be right back”.

 

 

 

 

 

_“Why do you think I left?”_

 

It’s a gamble.

Most things aren’t the same any more (understatement of the century), but something tells her that _this_ is – this, he’ll understand.

Her approach is obnoxious, dangerous, but luckily most of them didn’t know her before- they all seem to think she’s the kind to fold under goodwill and the search for truth.

But he understands.

 

“I saw everything, Jemma.” Her name falls from his lips like a blessing she hadn’t heard for far too long. “Did you really want me to find out this way?”

 

_Yes._

“Well I was hoping you would so that we can work together on this.” She has to hope she doesn’t sound as desperate as she feels.

 

_Tell me you understand._

“Can’t any of you see what you’ve done? You’ve destroyed a man’s life, and for what?” He’s so beautifully angry, there’s no confusion or hesitation, he’s burning brightly, the heavy Scottish lilt rolling every word and it’s all she can do not to smile.

 

“Cause of fear.”

 

_I’m with you._

 

“Cause of fear of what’s inside a little black box.”

 

_They can’t touch us._

 

“You knew this would drive me away, you may as well have packed my bags yourself. You _want_ me to leave, don’t you, Jemma?”

 

_Yes - pack your bag -  of course - good plan._

 

“If we work for SHIELD, we have a duty to carry out our responsibilities; so perhaps it’s best if you do.”

 

_Thank you._

 

There’s a long sigh of relief (hope?) that steals from her lips as he storms from the room, as Bobbi watches her carefully, cautiously; but it’s okay, because something has been fixed somewhere and although he can barely stop himself from catching her eye over his shoulder on the way (and she can _tell_ ), their fiery eyes catch in the reflection of the mass spectrometer and ignite silently, secretly, where no one else can see-  

  

 

_so come on and light a match_

_light a match now_

_we’re a perfect match_

_(perfect somehow)_

_we were meant for one another_

_come a little closer_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The week comes to an end! Might expand a few of these short things because writing is fun also fitzsimmons feels are everywhere..


End file.
